The same posture from the Trial of Surrender.
Maelor’s face hardened.
“The posture is incorrect.”
“The Trial of Surrender accepted this posture under witness,” Sabine said. “Trial Marshal Corvek recorded passage.”
Corvek’s voice came from near the record table.
“The record confirms irregular posture was accepted.”
Serast’s jaw tightened, but he gestured for the rite to continue.
The first resistance had landed.
Small.
Visible.
Recorded.
Maelor approached with the ritual blade.
He reached for Sabine’s hand.
She did not give it.
Maelor stopped.
“The Bloodwright must guide the bride’s hand.”
“The bride’s blood is hers to offer,” Sabine said.
“The rite requires proper guidance.”
“Then it should have written guidance into my skin.”
Lucien’s gaze sharpened across the basin.
Maelor looked to Serast.
Serast’s voice was controlled fury.
“Extend your hand, Lady Sabine.”
Sabine extended her hand.
But she positioned it herself, palm open, over the channel carved into the floor.
Maelor cut her.
The blade was cold, then hot.
Blood welled fast, running from her palm into the carved groove below.
The chamber responded before the first drop reached stone.
A low hum moved through the floor.
